


Holding On

by LittleDarkling



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Callen reconnect after the events of 'Burned'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Bellasarius and company. Not profit made, nor infringement intended.
> 
> Spoilers: ‘Burned’

 

 

        They’re barely in the door, when Sam grips the front of his shirt and yanks hard. Callen tumbles into his arms, into a hungry, desperate kiss. He can barely catch his breath. It’s only been two days, but it feels like months, like years. There were periods of cold uncertainty when he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to go back home, _if_ he’d be able to go back. Sam’s grip is tight, hard enough to bruise and it makes his muscles twitch, but he doesn’t pull away because he is almost certain that he holds Sam in kind. His partner snaps out of the kiss suddenly and propels Callen into a wall. He’s breathless, his face flushed and his dark eyes are fierce.

 

“You reckless bastard,” Sam whispers angrily. “I hate what you make me want to do, what you do to me.” Callen returns the glare.

 

“I never asked. That’s on you,” he replies breathlessly. And then Sam is kissing him again, rough and violent; they can both taste blood. Callen drags his fingers across the top of Sam’s smooth scalp, digs his nails in hard enough to leave behind pale pink welts. Sam grunts, hands moving to frame the younger man’s head, curling his tongue obscenely into Callen’s mouth as he drives his hips into his partner’s. They are both hard beneath the fabric that separates them. 

 

*

He slams Callen onto the mattress with such force that he can feel the spring below nudge into his shoulder. Sam wrenches his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. His dark skin is flushed with the combination of fight and arousal, powerfully muscled torso heaving with each breath. He grabs the waistband of his partner’s jeans, yanking them down over his legs. Callen tugs off his own shirt, but before he can even cast it aside, Sam is pulling it out of his hands and twisting the soft, worn material. He moves forward, knee coming down between Callen’s thighs as he reaches to take hold of the younger man’s wrists. Callen makes a noise of disapproval and tries to evade, but Sam just growls and his fingers tighten until the bone grinds together. He wraps the fabric around Callen’s wrists and loops it tight, before he shoves the other agent’s hands over his head.

 

“Don’t you move,” he grinds out.  Callen responds with a knee to his spleen. Or rather tries to. Sam’s SEAL training doesn’t fail him in the least. He reaches between them and pushes Callen’s knee down with enough force to make the muscle twinge and the younger man cry out. 

 

“You’re not fighting me on this,” he hisses, biting roughly at his partner’s lips, teeth dragging across his chin as he pulls away. Callen doesn’t reply with words, but throws his bound hands around Sam’s neck and yanks him back down. This maneuver isn’t expected and Sam falls forward, hands slipping on the comforter. Callen’s thighs come up to bracket the bigger man’s waist and he pushes up, the combination of  leverage and Sam’s brief, startled pliancy enough to allow him to flip their positions. He’s straddling Sam’s body, but victory doesn’t last long. The bed doesn’t offer much in way of balance and the sleeve trailing from the makeshift cuffs catch on Sam’s watch. Callen grunts in annoyance, trying to tug it loose, but he’s already lost the upper hand. Sam’s fist closes on the sleeve and he wrenches hard as he twists his body to the side, spilling Callen back onto the bed. He keeps a hold on the bindings as Callen struggles to his knees and yanks the younger man against him, back to chest. One large arm braces across his throat. The muscles ripple like the constricting body of a python when Callen shouts a frustrated curse and tries to drive his elbow into Sam’s side. A futile, useless attempt. They are both breathing hard.

 

“Are you done?” Sam asks.

 

“Fuck you,” Callen grinds out. He hates being helpless, being vulnerable and Sam is the only one…the only one who knows him better than he knows himself. He can hide from anyone but this man.

Sam transfers the tail of the cuffs to his other hand. He brings his newly freed hand to Callen’s mouth, but the younger man backs up. The move only puts him flush against Sam’s broad chest, but he turns his head and bares his teeth in warning. Sam smirks and Callen wants to hit him.

 

“It’s like that, huh?” he asks, but his hand slithers across his partner’s shoulder as he draws it back. Callen’s heart pounds all the harder as he hears the clink of the belt buckle, the snap of the button and the grind of the zipper coming down. He feels a finger, slick with saliva slipping down between his buttocks. There is a moment of stillness. Sam’s fingers spreading him, his partner’s breathing stuttered and loud in his ear.

 

“Do it…” Callen bites out. The final word is lost in a cry as Sam pushes long, thick, blunt fingers inside him. It burns; the saliva is hardly enough to ease the way. Sam works quickly, fingers moving in and out, deeper each time. Callen groans, head falling forward, teeth clenching. Sam twists his wrists and the abruptness of it takes Callen’s breath. The edge of pain is joined by a flash of incredible, jarring pleasure as those large, gun-callused digits find that spot inside him and brush hard against it.

 

“Sam!” he gasps out.  And then the fingers are gone abruptly and Callen’s body sags in Sam’s arms.  There’s the soft crinkling of a condom packet being torn open; where Sam got it from, he has no idea. Brief silence but for their breathing and then the fingers are replaced with something bigger and, oh…He chokes out a gasp as Sam pushes inside. One sure thrust and Callen bites at whatever skin he can reach to muffle his cry. Sam growls, a combination of the pain of his partner’s teeth and the constricting heat of his body. Sam mouths his shoulder as he pulls back and then thrusts in hard. Callen’s teeth leave marks in his partner’s arm.

 

He can feel the rough fabric of Sam’s trousers, the warmed metal of his belt buckle, the teeth of his zipper, all pressing into his skin. There will be indentations of the buckle when this is over, pressed into Callen’s flesh, a bruise that won’t fade for days. A bruise to accompany the ache, the awkwardness that possesses his body after every encounter between them. Sam’s arm leaves his neck in favor of bracing across his abdomen, pulling him back into the tight, grinding thrusts. 

 

The pain and pleasure intertwine and Callen finds his mind quiet, his body focused only on the here, the now. The scent of Sam and he feel of him, surrounding, encompassing. And he is drowning. Sam’s lips ghost across the back of his neck. There are words formed against his skin. Promise. The same promise uttered so many times. Moments of pain and hopeless, pleasure and love. Callen has long since given up any attempt to keep silent. He lets the moans and soft, catching sobs of breath fall freely from his lips. Sam’s sharp grunts are mostly muffled against the back of Callen’s neck and he can feel the press of his partner’s mouth against his skin. No more words. Only the sound of Sam’s breathing and his own, in echoes. He closes his eyes as he lets his body sink in Sam’s arms, trusting his partner to hold him up. Surrender. An incoherent murmur rumbles out of Sam and Callen can feel it shiver through his own body. Sam’s hips rock harder against his, rhythm faltering. Each sharp thrust is a shock. When Sam’s long, rough hand surrounds his length, Callen’s orgasm punches out of him, sharp and sudden. A bright, brilliant of spark of pain-pleasure from within. Sam moans an incoherent curse into the curve of his shoulder and goes still as he comes.

 They fall together, spent, against the bed. Sam maneuvers them onto their sides, so he isn’t putting all his weight on his partner.  Callen can feel Sam’s heart pounding hard against his back, almost in counterpoint to his own, feel the panting breaths against his overheated skin. His blood rushes in his ears. He feels broken and sated. Safe and home. Sam undoes the cuffs with one hand, casting the tortured fabric aside and rubs his fingers gently over Callen’s reddened wrists. The older man’s lips brush gentle kisses across the sweaty nape of his neck.

 

“Don’t do that again,” he murmurs.

 

“I’ll try not to,” Callen replies. They both know it’s a lie, but Sam’s arm tightens around his hip, dragging him closer.

 

*

 

An hour and a half later Callen is stretched out, head pillowed on Sam’s side. They’ve kicked down the covers and what remains is tangled loosely around Sam’s left calf. The late afternoon sun spills through the partition in the drapes to cut a line of warmth across their bare skin. There is only the soft whir of the ceiling fan and Sam’s radio playing at low volume. The musky scent of sex lingers vaguely in the air.  Sam reads a much tattered copy of _War and Peace_ , while Callen plays Tetris on his new phone. Sam had bought it for him less than an hour after Callen went missing and loaded everything back. Songs, contacts, shows, movies and apps. Sam’s arm is draped around Callen’s side, his fingers stroking idly across the soft skin just above the curve of his hip. It’s comfortable and familiar and yet there’s still something, a kind of pulsing current crackling between them. It’s not over yet. There’ll be more fighting and more fucking. Maybe over the next few hours, or possibly the next few days. It’s probably why Hetty gave them a week off. Not that either of them want to linger on how or _what_ Hetty knows. 

 

“You want something to eat?” Sam asks suddenly. Callen tilts his head up, his hair tickling Sam’s side.

 

“You offering to cook?” The older man reaches for the portable phone beside the bed.

 

“I’m offering to order out.”

 

“Ok,” Callen replies amenably and returns to his game. Sam finds himself staring at the top of Callen’s head, at his short, dark hair. 

 

“I was scared, G,” he says suddenly. Callen doesn’t look up, but his fingers slow and then cease motion on the phone.

 

“I know,” he replies. “So was I.”

 

“You don’t need someone else to tell you who you are. You know. _I_ know who you are.” Callen looks up at him.

 

“It’s not good enough, Sam.” He was expecting that answer so he’s not sure why it stings.

 

“It’s not going to change anything. Not going to change who you are, or anything between us. I’m still going to be your partner.”

 

“I know.” He catches Sam’s hand in his and presses a kiss to the knuckles, breathes an apology softly across the bruised skin. “I know.”

 

End

 


End file.
